Yours To Command
by Dindrane
Summary: Croquet's thoughts as he stands guard over Pegasus as he lies in a coma in a hospital. One-shot.


A/N: This takes place sometime after Yami Bakura, legendary thief extraordinaire, steals Pegasus' Millennium Eye. Written in a stream of consciousness style from Croquet's POV. Also this is in no way meant to be considered yaoi, even though it could be construed as such. I often wondered about Croquet's dedication to Pegasus. Even though Pegasus seemed to be forever getting on Croquet's case, Croquet never backed down from him and was also the one person that questioned Pegasus' plans in a conversational way. I felt there was probably more to the connection between the two than a boss/employee relationship so this is just my take on a bond that could have been built over a lifetime. Thank you so much to all of you who reviewed my first one-shot, 'Do Dragons Dream?'

Dedication: This one's for Animom. I took my interpretation of the characters in a totally different direction than you did, but your ideas helped me solidify my own.

Disclaimer: I still don't own Pegasus or any other rights to Yugioh. If I did Pegasus certainly would not be dead. Also I made up Security Magazine, though it wouldn't surprise me if a periodical by that name really exists. Joseph Wambaugh is a real author of police fiction, what little I've read of his is anything but boring.

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Yours to Command

Here I stand, helpless beside you, a take-charge man, watching over the pale diminishing form of my platinum-haired master. I will kill the one who did this to you, my vow and my oath irrevocable and secret. Not long ago would I have been able to hide the thought that blazes in my mind, but now my thoughts are silenced to you, as silenced as you have also been. So I wait and watch in stillness for your return.

I know you would not approve of my murderous rage, my comatose master. You are an honorable man, even if you did dishonorable things. You gave me more than reason enough to hate you, but all I could do was love you. All the times you sent me to the dungeon, whether for punishment or play, I cannot count. But murder was never one of your crimes. Nor were you truly guilty of being the soul-stealing criminal others have accused you of being. Borrowing is not same. Of course, you seldom asked permission first, but you always returned what you took. 

The antiseptic smells, colorless faces, the sameness of the halls have made me claustrophobic inside the private hospital walls. Were you conscious and aware, you would hate it here. Your eyes saw beauty everywhere, but you would not find it here. We have become wards of this sterile prison, you and I. 

You found passion in each sunrise, surrendered to every storm's intense embrace, loved the breezes that caressed the sculpted beauty of your face, and were enchanted by each songbird's serenade. You felt everything with deep intensity and put the feeling into every brushstroke. The intricate patterns that you drew became the pattern for a life few knew. Androgynous beauty that you are, you hid a truer beauty in your soul, and put it on display for all who were too blind to see. 

I failed you, often. My guilt and my grief caused by absence or tardiness, by feeling too much or not enough. Regardless, it seems I was not where I was needed when I was needed most. You kept me close enough through the years. A shadow you made me and a shadow I am. Guilt by omission, I know well enough not to leave you, and yet I did.

I did my time as a military man, went off to see the world and make my own small mark upon it. Surveillance was my specialty; perfect marksmanship became my fame. Still, my world existed on a somewhat isolated island and was ruled by a platinum-haired painter. How far we run to find the place from which we come.

I was honored to be best man on your wedding day. Proud and humbled at once-I am but a simple soldier, bound by my oath to live in the line of fire, the captain of your guard. That you should make your claim to me among your closest friends is reward more vast than I can make the measure of.

I think I loved her _because _you loved her. The Goddess Venus had nothing over her. The way you portrayed her endlessly and all that you wrote of her to me, babbled nonsense that was sheer poetry. An angel was missing in heaven, but I guess the cherubim and seraphim found her and took her back. 

I wasn't there when she died. I wasn't there when _they _took your perfect amber eye and replaced it with a cold gold monstrosity that came from a forgotten tomb of the forgotten dead and is millennia old. That day the boy I knew disappeared into the man whose vision changed the world. Not with a plot to rule the world-they would come later-but with the creation of a not so simple, not so childish game.

A game. If you can call anything with so much power a game. Your charismatic public appearances have become legend. The Creator of Duel Monsters. I often wonder if the truth were widely known if it would change anything. The game so quickly grew in popularity among the world's youth. Not many know you yourself are an eternal child. A Peter Pan in your private Neverland. Does that make me one of the lost boys?

The truth is you merely reinvented the Shadow Games for the modern world and made it accessible to the many rather than the few. If the populous came to understand the danger, the magic you imbued each monster that you drew, latent, dormant, but there all the same, would it change the game?

The danger certainly came for you. The tournaments, the fans, the multi-billion dollar company, and enemies lurking in every unexplored nook and cranny. I handpicked your silent dark-suited army carefully.

All I could do was stand beside you, behind you, stay close, and watch your back. This is my place, my purpose, not because of an employer's contract or fate or your command. You do not own me, nor could you pay me in any way enough for what I do. I chose this instead of an ordinary life. My life is yours, it has always been.

I, too, am an honorable man, and loyal to a fault. The first time I saw you, I knew I would give my life to you. I would give my life for you.

A sparkling silver mane shimmering in sunshine, paper wings, an imagination caught by a fancy for flight, small boy of four laughing in delight, chasing butterflies in a garden maze, innocent, ethereal-all that I was not, nor would ever be.

You insisted that I attend your fifth birthday party. I believe I have attended every one since. You insisted on subjecting me to Funny Bunny. I still don't get it. You insisted I play hide-and-seek with you in that labyrinth under Castle Pegasus you call a dungeon. I got lost-repeatedly. You always giggled when you found me. You called it the 'Let's Lose Croquet Today' game. I learned the island and all that lie beneath it-the castle and it's towers better than you ever did. You didn't insist on playing that particular game after that.

Just as I am your servant, my father served yours. The difference lie in that my father was a gardener, a keeper of growing things, nurturing by nature. His life, too, was all about service, his master the Christian God. At the tender age of ten, I had seen enough of sorrow to last the lives of many men, guerilla warfare, death, poverty, and the pathetic struggle for survival. My parents were missionaries in some backwater third-world country who seemed to believe raising a child in such conditions was proper, perhaps even wise. My mother gave her life to her faith; my father was broken by it. For me, apathy was the true religion. I was born and raised to it.

It was survival, not life. In a single moment, while I watched you try to fly, I saw life as freedom and passion-I saw the child I would claim for my master. There is nothing I would not do to protect that spirit that still lives in you. You taught me to live, to breathe, to laugh, and to love-to feel. A charming lesson that cut both ways exhilarating and devastating at once.

I wasn't there when the thief ripped out that golden, magical monstrosity you called the sennen eye. In my mind I hear your voice chiding me yet again, reminding me of all the times I _was _there and of what could have been. Of what use is that, Master, when the one who put you in here is still out there and managed to slip past my guard? 

Tell me, Max, tell me who it was…wake up and tell so I can exact my justice…I want to shake you, slap you, scream, anything to bring you back to this dimension. I'm frustrated and lost, too old and set in my career to be expected to switch gears. If you slip away into that eternal dark abyss, where will that leave me?

Everyday I read the daily paper to you, front to back, including ads. I've also read each issue of Security Magazine and the collected works of Joseph Wambaugh. I think I'll start on westerns next…Maybe I can bore you out of your coma. Certainly, your recent conversational skills are lacking and your talent with crossword puzzles is much missed. However, the wine cellar is well-stocked…

I have spent my life watching you, just as I am watching you now, helpless to protect you from the demons in your mind, locked away from this place and time. Time is slipping from us, Master. Time has always gotten in the way, too much time waiting with endless circular thoughts to entertain me, too little time to learn all there is to know of you.

I am here, my friend, my master, to serve, to wait, to watch, yours to command until time's end.


End file.
